Worth The Wounds
by it-all-implodes
Summary: John is shot during a case and Sherlock has to tend to him. The only problem, the two keep experiencing inexplicable moments between them...
1. Worth the Wound

**A/N: This fic is base on both a prompt by moonlitthoughts on tumblr and a canon quote from the original ACD Sherlock Holmes.**

"**It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.**"

_Assistance needed, John. SH_

_John. SH_

_John! SH_

…_Could be dangerous. SH_

_Where? JW_

"What did this guy do again?"

Sherlock sighed, _note to self, take John to all crime scenes otherwise risk explaining numerous times._

The Consulting Detective and his trusted Doctor companion, who was supposedly only meant to be helping pay the rent, were stood with their backs against a bare, peeling plaster wall. John was closest to the door, his Sig gun held securely in both his hands and pointing downwards at a slight angle. Sherlock was next to him. He'd abandoned the woolen trench coat and scarf in favor of having a little freer arm movement. The building around them was the site of the first rape and murder crime scene. A dingy little old house with peeling walls, mildew and abandoned upturned mattresses. The whole place reeked of death and desertion.

"In this room, McCarthy raped his first victim before killing her and removing her womb." Sherlock said, in a voice much too cold and isolate for what he just said.

John swallowed heavily, his throat suddenly dry.

"God, I might throw up." John thought it fair he provided warning.

"It'll only make more of a mess for Lestrade to clear up when I text him."

The two men were silent for a moment, listening out for their prey to enter the ramshackle building. Then John broke the silence.

"Rent's due tomorrow." He mumbled softly.

"We'll stop off at the bank on the way home." Sherlock replied, his baritone gentle and even. Mindless conversation, but at least it was better than the tension that built between them earlier at Baker Street.

A creek from somewhere in the house below them brought both their attentions back to the present. Sherlock's piercing glance catches John's and he presses his finger to his lips in a motion of silence. John nods once, his breath exhales smoothly and evenly. Under pressure and loving every second.

Seconds later, McCarthy strolls calmly though the doorway. He is a short man, shorter than John, with small quick eyes that contain a sadistic sparkle and sharp features. No matter how fast his mind, he did not notice the two men hiding in such plain sight until John's gun pressed forcefully into the back of his neck.

"This would not kill you. It would paralyse first and you would still be conscious. It would kill you later." John's voice was as calm as a millpond and it sent a motionless haunting shiver down Sherlock's spine.

A dark chuckle abruptly sprouted itself from McCarthy's mouth. "The army doctor and the world's only consulting detective working for the police. What a novelty."

"Working _with_ the police most of the time, McCarthy. Although they are yet the receive knowledge of our successful endeavor cornering you here today. You know what they say, should never return to the scene of the crime." Sherlock's tone was teasing but McCarthy's smile was wiped with the sound of John flicking the safety of his handgun.

John ushered the smarmy man to turn around. To his credit, McCarthy did as he was told and even took the measure to place his hands behind his back. But his smile was taunting and John had already placed the Sig back into his waistband.

Like a flash of lightning and just as deadly, McCarthy pulled his own revolver from nowhere and fired. Hot searing pain, as if a branding iron had been pressed to his thigh, flooded though John. Sherlock stepped forward and ripped from John's waistband his handgun.

The gun that was so familiar to his eyes somehow felt plainly wrong in his grip. But Sherlock held on tighter still and focused his stare down the barrel and between the eyes of the shriveled man before him. He glanced at John, who had fallen to the floor to take his weight off his wound.

"John? Say that you are okay."

John chose his moment wisely to look up into the eyes of his best friend and flat mate. Eyes that normally bore a clear, hard glare were dimmed and his firm lips were shaking. It was worth both the gunshot wounds, worth a thousand wounds, to see the depth of loyalty behind the cold mask and a great heart in what he simply saw as transport.

Without letting his relief and realization of that great heart be reflected into his face, John grunted, in reply.

Umph." Sharp exhale. "I'm alright, Sherlock."

Not dead. Obviously. Good. Gunshot wound to the leg.

Bit not good, though. Sherlock turned his attention back to the criminal in front of him and raised his chin.

"If you had killed John, you would not have got out of this room alive."

With that, Sherlock flipped the handgun over in his hand, so that his elegant fingers grasped the barrel, and brought the handle down across McCarthy's face, knocking him to the ground.

Stoop and kneel, check pulse. Steady. Slight amount of blood where the handle made contact. Out cold and for the count. Stand. John.

Sherlock refocused his attention to his friend and knelt down beside him as John righted himself in a true sitting position, wincing in pain as he did.

"Alright?"

John glared at him.

"No. You're not. You've just been shot."

John makes a noise of indifference, "I've had worse."

Sherlock's gaze focuses momentarily on John's left shoulder and the war wound that resided there which brought the good doctor to him. Sherlock felt an odd amount of fondness for the ugly scar tissue, without it, he would not have his soldier.

Their gazes meet and hold longer than strictly necessary. Then Sherlock breaks the moment, pulling out his phone and firing off a message to Lestrade.

Ready now. Murderer cornered at first crime scene. - SH

After a show of gratitude from a rather exhausted looking Lestrade and the waving off of various annoying paramedics ("It's merely a scratch and I'm a Doctor, I can patch myself up, thank you very much.") in much kinder tones than Sherlock would have preferred, Sherlock and John clambered into one of London's invisible cabs.

"Baker Street. Fast as you please," barked Sherlock before settling back to gaze out the window. He sat on the small pull down window seat in the hackney cab, allowing John to rest his wounded leg on the fully sized seat across from him.

The pair were silent for a moment, watching the passing streets and people. Various groups of tourist lined the streets, cameras in hand snapping away happily.

The tension in the cab was almost pliable, converging around the two of them like a real force instead of an abstract notion.

"Are we going to talk about _it_?" John asked, his voice almost timid.

"About what, John?"

John let out a long breath through his nose, Sherlock _knew_ what. Upon the noise, the detective focused his attention upon the solider, curiosity on his face. At the sight of John's expression, though, the curiosity faded. Replaced by something that made John's stomach turn. They were not going to be discussing _it _at all. John screwed his face up to let his disgust be known. He'd have to formulate a different plan to get Sherlock to talk.

By the time Sherlock was finished cleaning the superficial wound on John's thigh, John had prepared his plan. It would go into action over the course of the next few days. As Sherlock pressed the taped into place the gauze over the shallow wound, John spoke.

"We never made it to the bank."

The words are very softly spoken, but, for just moment, they still freeze the slender finger on his leg.

"Given your incapacitated state I'm sure Mrs Hudson will forgive us."

"Not if you blow any more holes in her bloody walls." John mutters and it causes a grin to break out on Sherlock's face, a smile that is so rare only John ever really sees it.

Sherlock continues to rub down the edges of the tape over the gauze and John stifles his sigh, because it's all he wants. Domesticity. With Sherlock. Sherlock's fingers stop and their gazes catch. The flow between them is almost tangible. The flow of something unidentifiable at the moment. But it is the same type of moment that passed between them earlier, over breakfast, before the McCarthy case. It lasts for a fleeting second that seems to stretch on forever. Forever. Forever could be eternal, or it could be a fleeting second, it was constantly changing and always happening.

The flow was broken.

"Yoohoo."

Broken by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock broke the gaze and quickly stood up.

"Doctor Watson is good as new again, Mrs Hudson." And like that, it was gone again.

Sherlock stared blankly ahead as he accepted the cup of tea being offered to him. He took a sip and then frowned at three things; one, John had forgotten to add the sugar to his cup, two, why was John making tea, was he not shot? And three, John's hand gently caressed the back of his head down to the nape of his neck. The touch was very un-John-like and if he'd not been concentrating Sherlock would have missed it, as it barely skimmed his curls.

Sherlock glared down into his mug trying to process that touch. What was John up to? He watched as John sat in his own armchair and gulped down tea before grimacing and standing up again making his way back to Sherlock. He pulled the mug out of his hands and replaced it with the sugar containing tea he had mistaken, before running his hand down Sherlock's shoulder and apologetically smiling at him.

Sherlock gaped. What was happening?

He had never been one for love, sentiment and emotions, but Sherlock Holmes knew affection when it was displayed. Only, John had never displayed this much affection. A caress may be simple enough, but it's a long shot from the oddly endearing '_fantastic'_ comment about his deductions. Plus, the adoring comments had become minimal recently, replaced instead with "Sherlock, you're showing off again."

Sherlock took a contemplative sip of his tea; it was of course perfect, and watched as John picked up the latest book he was reading. Sherlock was also trying to read what he though was an open book, but was starting to reconsider that evaluation. A small smile danced on John's lips, Sherlock was clueless and, he hoped, would remain that way…


	2. Bite and Sting

**A/N – Thank you so much for adding this to your alerts and favourite, it means the world that someone is actually reading this. So, especially for you all, I've written this super fast (I'm normally a shit updater) It's only short, I'm sorry. This has become slightly angsty too, for which I apologise. **

It _was _worth the wounds, especially the deep, scarring emotional ones that tore at John's heart as he read the letter. The RAMC logo was at the top corner and his stomach twisted. It was a dream it had to be. Calmly he folded the despicable piece of paper back into its envelope before running towards their shared bathroom, his latest cup of tea evacuating his body. When he had finished vomiting, John Watson sat calmly in his armchair and contemplated just how the fucking hell he was planning to tell Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street later than evening. John hadn't moved from his chair and now had the television on, hoping BBC News could provide some insight. His eyes, however, had other ideas and they started at the television, unseeing, while Sherlock swirled around like a hurricane, whipping off his scarf and exclaiming about the small case he's just wrapped up. There was a moments peace when Sherlock went to change into his pajama's and best blue dressing gown but then he was back sprawled across the sofa, his fingertips touching beneath his chin.

'_The Military have confirmed that the Taliban have joined forces with the rogue civilians and our armed forces are currently heavily outnumbered. British Commander in Chief will, later, issue a statement confirming or denying reports that retired soldiers may be re-enlisted against their will. More on that later.'_

"Awful isn't it. Men and women who have done their service re-enlisted." Sherlock soft voice muttered out these words before jumping up and declaring, "I'm making tea."

John watched as his plan to dote affection onto Sherlock flew out the window, along with, probably, his entire future. It was now or never. He stood up, effectively blocking Sherlock's path to the kitchen. He quickly invaded the detective's personal space, leaving mere inches between their bodies.

"John?"

John shook his head slightly. _Don't talk._ Before smoothly rising on the balls of his feet and pressing his lips softly to Sherlock's. The good doctor was sinking away again by the time Sherlock reacted, his own mouth desperately trying to follow John's.

John dipped his head low and pulled the letter from his back pocket, pressing it into Sherlock's chest.

"I'm so sorry, my love. I wish we could have had longer." The term of endearment flew from John's lips automatically, but he did not regret it, Sherlock might as well know now, considering John was one of the ex-soldiers evaluated to be fit enough to return to the front line.

Sherlock slowly shook his head as realisation bloomed in his beautiful, sad grey eyes. "John." It was barely a whisper, just his sculptured lips forming the syllable. He hand covered John's on his own chest, taking the letter and staring with hatred at the logo for the RAMC.

John did not say anything else; he quietly walked back to the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle.

Sherlock's whole entire world was collapsing around his ears. Imaged of John leaving, dying, never returning filled his mind palace and would haunt his dreams. But soon they were replaced with the aftermath, the addictive personality once again resorting the intravenously injected heroin and the chain-smoking despite living in London, where, of course, it was impossible to sustain a smoking habit. He fingers rubbed absentmindedly over the tract marks in the crease of his elbow. He couldn't let John be deported. There had to be a way to stop it.

The nightmares returned that night. He had spent so long without them, and without his limp, that he had forgotten the vicious bite and sting of the images his mind conjured. John sat bolt upright, awakened by his own scream. He was drench though with cold sweat and something wet was rolling from his eyes. Tears. He couldn't go back there. Moving quickly and silently so as to not wake Sherlock downstairs, John made a swipe at his tears and got out of bed to changed his pajama's into a fresh clean pair. He curled back up into a ball beneath his duvet and willed his mind to erase the images still burned onto the inside of his eyelids.

He drifted back to a half sleep and was vaguely aware of his bedroom door opening. A heavy weight sat on the other side of his bed and sighed. John could hear Sherlock's breathing, slow, steady and reliable. A constant in his hectic lifestyle living with a high functioning sociopath. The bed creaked as Sherlock moved, shuffling down and across before hesitantly curling around his own body. Sherlock Holmes was spooning him. A comforting hand rested on his bicep and the hitch in John's throat caught, threatening a full-blown sob. The hand on his arm squeezed slightly and a soft '_shhh' _was whispered in his ear. Before long both men, weary from distressing news, nightmares and the pricks at Scotland Yard, fell into deep and restful sleep.

**Writing this I had New York by Snow Patrol on repeat, it is beautiful song, go listen. Also, reviews? 'Til next time **


	3. Rays of Sunshine

**A/N – Dear, reader, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you. **

John awoke to a sharp pain in his leg from the graze of his gunshot wound. He inhaled sharply in compensation and was greeted by the warm, calm smell of a silently sleeping Sherlock, flat out in front of him. John's nose was gently buried inside the loose dark curls, and Sherlock body was lax and peaceful. Realisation dawned like the sun in the east and John rolled away from the warmth of the detective. Behind his head the pillow had a chill to it, and sent shivers down his bed-warm body, his hands were already cold from the early morning chill of his room.

There was a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be. It had been torn out and stamped all over. It could not be healed over by scar tissue, or sewn together by the best surgeon in the military. It would, forever, be open and excruciating. He couldn't just leave Sherlock. Both Sherlock and John knew that they needed one another for the other to function, without canes or cocaine.

Ever so gently, John laid his freezing hands on the curve of Sherlock's shoulders. A moment later the detective woke with a small shiver. Sherlock rolled over to his back; sleep hazed eyes lay of John's face. A small sad smile danced at the corners of his lips. John leaned on his side, elbow bent, resting his head in his hand and memorizing Sherlock's beautiful face, he would need the memory in times fast approaching.

The gangly detective glanced at the clock over John's shoulder and jumped out of bed. He approached the curtains and asked John permission with one look. Granted. With all his finesse, Sherlock tugged on both side of the curtains, opening them wide and letting the daylight flood the room.

Even through the sadness that the detective and his army doctor felt, the London day outside on the streets of Westminster was glorious.

Sherlock watched in awe as almost tangible rays of sunshine found their way into every dark corner of both the room, and John. They tangled around him, highlighting both his golden hair and skin tone, brightening up their day and mood. Bathing John in this light made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat. There _had_ to be more. More about John he had to know. More that John had to discover about him. More to their lives together other than what they already had, to be broken apart by deployment.

"Hey."

The soft noise broke through Sherlock's thoughts.

"Get out of that palace and come lie with me." Sherlock closed his eyes at the sound of John's voice, wanting to store it into every room and crevice of his mind palace, so that everything was filled with John. John. _John_.

Sherlock clambered back on to the bed and folded himself up, cat-like, at the foot. Grey eyes stared into blue.

"How long?" the '_until deployment'_ was not necessary.

John exhaled heavily. "Probably about a week. Maybe less." John watched as Sherlock faced screwed up, mirroring the twisting of his stomach in the way only Sherlock's face could. He would miss that face. He would miss the impossible expressions and the impossible expressionlessness of it; the angular jaw and the sharp, strong cheekbones; the dipped cupid bow and the tiny imperfection in his right eye that nobody really saw unless you truly looked hard enough.

John patted the space next to him, coaxing Sherlock to reflect his positioning. Sherlock, for once, did what was asked of him. They gazed quietly for a moment at each other before speaking in hushed tones and whispers, not wanted to break the peace.

"How long will it be for?"

"I don't know."

Pause.

"I need you John. Don't leave me alone again."

"Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea just how much _I_ need _you_. Remember how you say that breathing is boring, but it's necessary." Sherlock's breath huffed out in confirmation. "Well, to me you are just as necessary, and no where near boring. Life with you is a rollercoaster. Sometimes you're up, and then you're down. And then you spin round in circles, get dizzy and throw up."

"John that is an awful metaphor."

John grins, and a small giggles escapes. Sherlock chuckles darkly. John loves that sound, and before he knows it his hand comes up to cup Sherlock's jaw and the detectives freezes beneath him.

"I wish we had more time." The words are barely and murmur from Sherlock's lips.

"I know, love. So do I."

They remain silent for a little while longer, just drinking in the sight of each other. John's intrepid fingertips started to map the hills and valleys of Sherlock body, committing to memory tiny freckles and scars that scatter his pale skin.

Sherlock had hidden inside his mind palace, ways and ideas to keep John at Baker Street whirling through faster than rockets. Words of ideas forming and dissolving as they were dismissed almost immediately. John watched Sherlock's eyes as they glassed over inside his own head. He gently traced his thumb over one of the prominent cheekbones and Sherlock sighed into the contact.

Within his palace one word stuck out, almost in defiance against his own mind, heart and morals. Could he do it? He could. But it would go against all his morals and ideals of self-importance if he did. Did that matter? If he did he would never live it down afterwards, running to his big brother for help… Mycroft? John mattered more than his own self-image. _Mycroft!_

Blinking slightly, Sherlock returned to the present to find that John had abandoned the bed, though it was still warm, so he could not have been gone that long.

Reaching the conclusion that tea was always a necessity for John, no matter the circumstances, Sherlock left the bed and made his way to the kitchen. Leaning against the doorframe he watched as John poured boiling water into two mugs and made tea.

"I'm not taking it to you like you're the fucking Queen, Sherlock." John mumbled and turned to put his tea on the uncluttered table. He seemed unfazed when he spotted Sherlock by the door, just smiled at him.

The two flatmates sat opposite each other in their little kitchen, free from chemicals and dismembered body parts for once.

"Anything?"

"Mycroft."

Pause…. "You hate that, don't you? It's beneath you."

"I perceive it to be beneath me. But desperate times are now calling for desperate measures. So Mycroft it is."

John sipped his tea, evaluating how to respond. "I'm not wor-"

"Shut up. Now. John Hamish Watson, do _not_ try to tell me what you are and are not worth. I will not let you. You are worthy to me, and that is all that matters."

Silence fell for a moment. John's ploy to affection Sherlock into loving him in return seemed moot. They already did love each other, whether that is in a romantic terminology or not. It was obvious from the way Sherlock was willing to go to his older brother for help, regardless of their extreme sibling rivalry. Not that there would be much Mycroft could do, despite practically being the British government.

John stood up and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. They were both still in their pajamas, still bed-warm and cozy, yet the conversation had turned frosty and serious. John smoothed the lapels of Sherlock's second best dressing gown and intended to finish what had started last night.

He gently, hesitantly pulled Sherlock's lips down to his own and kissed the taller man. He felt a smile on the lips beneath his own before Sherlock reciprocated. Moving with majesty, Sherlock's lips molded John's around themselves and took control. John surrended, helpless as his arms found their way around Sherlock's neck, his fingers gingerly twisting within the dark curls. Meanwhile, Sherlock's own arms wrapped themselves around the smaller man's waist and, using his height to his advantage, enabling him to bend John slightly backwards, deepening the kiss and flicking his own expert tongue against John's lips. John established access with a moan and made a mental note to ask Sherlock where the fuck he learned to kiss like that.

After a few moments they broke apart, breathless and grinning like teenagers in love.

"It means a lot to me, Sherlock, that you are willing to ask this of Mycroft."

"You mean everything to me, John. I can't promise anything though."

John nodded, he understood that despite Mycroft's position, and even if he did manage to remove John from the list of re-enlistments, he might still have to serve a minimum tour. That, in itself, would be long enough torture.

**Any and all mistakes are my own :) Review? I update this with a 'Happy Birthday, Benny!' and a shameless self-promotion; my tumblr is it-all-implodes and my twitter is Warsaw_SH **

**Thanks guys! Love you.**


	4. Another Way

It was absurd. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was insufferable, but even after calling ahead to announce himself, Sherlock still found himself sitting on a plush brown leather sofa surrounded by mahogany in Mycroft's waiting room.

Drumming his fingers against the arm of the sofa impatiently, Sherlock tried to rehearse what he would actually say to his older brother.

_Brother, mine, I requ-_

No.

_Mycroft, I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye but-_

Definitely not.

Anthea sat at a small mahogany desk in a swivel chair typing away furiously and, Sherlock noted, faster than John, on a proper keyboard this time, although the BlackBerry was not far away, resting on the edge of the desk. A small buzzer sounded and, without even glancing up, Anthea motioned for Sherlock to enter Mycroft's office.

The door to his office swung open and Mycroft was greeted by a familiar huff of exasperation.

"Ahh brother, dear…"

The older Holmes glanced up, expecting to see his younger brother in the doorway, but instead all he saw was huge, pale grey eyes, sunken inside their sockets, and a boy of around 14 years old, helpless teenager who had blown up the tyres on their Father's new Ferrari.

Sherlock looked more shattered than a forgotten Christmas present that nobody wants.

"My… please." Sherlock voice was very small and the heart of the Ice Man melted under the use of the name his little brother called him when they were just mere children.

Mycroft rose from behind his huge desk and moved to his brother's side. He gripped Sherlock's elbow and steadied him as the younger man's knees gave out and he collapsed into another brown leather chair that sat in front on Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft turned around the other adjacent chair and sat facing the detective as equals. He had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable. The snide comments and harsh deductions did not often allow you to see past the exterior and into the feelings behind. Mycroft only knew of one man who knew Sherlock from the inside out, and he was to be sent back into the battlefield.

Once Sherlock had composed himself enough to form a coherent sentence, the two brothers spoke together without the infliction of sibling rivalry.

"I take it John received the letter."

"He can't go, My. You can't let him. We need each other."

"I am aware that without each other the pair of you become…" Mycroft struggled to find the words, "victims to your various whims. Cocaine." Sherlock sniffed, "Psychosomatic limps and phantom gun shot wound pain. But let me assure you, brother dear, if there was _anything _I could do to guarantee John Watson was not deployed, believe me, I would. But even then he would have to serve a minimum tour."

They sat silently for a few moments, interrupted only by Anthea who knocked politely, brought in coffee the way Sherlock liked it, black, two sugars, and then left just as silently.

The cogs in Sherlock's mind were whirling away, trying to find a solution, a loophole, to get John out of the predicament. He was coming up short every time.

Sherlock conjured up the good doctor's face behind his closed eyes. His smile when Sherlock's deductions were correct, and the eye roll when Sherlock was being a show off. An image from just days before made its way into his mind, John in pain when McCarthy had shot at him, the bullet grazing his thigh concluding in the need for gauzes.

"What… if… John had been injured and was completely unfit for active duty?"

Mycroft considered this for a second, his right index finger tapping lightly against his upper lip. "Well I supposed that if he was assessed as being unfit for active duty in the field with the RAMC again, then he would have to stay at Baker Street."

"And how bad would the would actually have to be." Sherlock nudged, an idea forming.

Mycroft went about choosing his next words every carefully. "Substantial. At the very least probably."

Sherlock leaned back, satisfied by these answers, summoning the meticulous plan inside his palace. "Thank you for your time, this afternoon, Mycroft." Mycroft smiled stiffly, his childhood nickname gone.

With that, Sherlock stood up and swooped out of the mahogany office, more of a man than he was upon entering the room.

"Sherlock, say you are not going to shoot Doctor Watson!" Mycroft called after his brother, but Sherlock was no longer within earshot.

All John wanted to do that day was to sit on his favourite corner of the sofa. But, sadly, this was not meant to be. Sherlock stomped through the door to 221b muttering incessantly. John knew he had been to see Mycroft, hence the bad mood, and decided to leave it a few minutes before he tried to instigate any sort of conversation.

But along with his plan to dote affection on Sherlock that too flew out the window the minute that Sherlock pulled John's handgun from where they keep it and directed it right at him.

"Holy Shit. SHERLOCK!"

"Up, John. Stand up. I've got a plan." He said it almost triumphantly, and not as if he was directing a loaded and lethal weapon at the doctor.

"Does it involve killing me, Sherlock? Because if so, I'd rather go back into the field, thank you very much."

Sherlock's eyes focused on how John would actually be seeing the predicament. "Don't be obvious. Of course I'm not going to kill you. But that thigh injury needs to be a lot worse. Either that, or I shoot you in the foot. One way or another you need to be re-invalided."

John held is hands out in mock-surrender. "Sherlock. I take it you spoke to Mycroft, but how you came to the conclusion to invalid me further I do not understand."

Sherlock lowered he gun, "Don't you _see_, John? Of course you don't. If we further the injury to your thigh you will be deemed unfit for service and you won't be deployed. _Do you see?_ It is a way to get you to stay home. With me." His voice grew softer and more desperate sounding with every word, so that by the end, strong Sherlock, who divorced himself from emotion, sounded almost broken.

John watched as the man he loves lost control of his emotions. The slender shoulders dropped and the gun fell to the floor. John stood, and encased the detective into his embrace. He buried his nose into the warm neck and inhaled intoxication. Sherlock smelt of tobacco and warmth, of tea and his own smell that was almost cinnamon, and most definitely Sherlock.

'Sherlock, my love, there is another way. There is _always_ another way."

**This story is also being published to AO3 but is a little behind. My Penname there is InkMySkin if you're interested. Thank you very much for reading, you beautiful person!**


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